


Language Lessons, 14: tjogjog (1200 words)

by ImpOfPerversity



Series: Language Lessons [14]
Category: Baroque Cycle - Neal Stephenson, Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies)
Genre: 1 Sentence Fiction, Languages, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-08-13
Updated: 2005-08-13
Packaged: 2018-11-12 12:10:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11161560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImpOfPerversity/pseuds/ImpOfPerversity





	Language Lessons, 14: tjogjog (1200 words)

  
  
Jack Shaftoe's been on board the notorious _Black Pearl_ \-- sailing with her infamous pirate company, captained (the very _word_ brings a broad, happy smile to his face at the thought of all it stands for: bodies pressed together for warmth and comfort in far Southern waters with ice next the hull; Jack Sparrow buried within Jack, gasping and moaning his name, as the tropical sweat pours off them both and pools, all mixed, in the groove of Jack's spine; soaked to the skin with sea-mist off the Cape, and exhanging promissory looks until they can get below and, private, strip one another bare) by the legendary Jack Sparrow, making common cause and uncommon wealth (Jack's amassed a small fortune, never mind that Sparrow's not a reckless foolhardy leader; luck follows the _Pearl_ , and Jack's a canny lad and quick to strike a good bargain, those times when he ventures ashore) with every man in her crew -- for a year and more now, and he's travelled all around the apple-round globe, from Thames-mouth to Biscay to the Azores, the Line, the long green coast of Brazil, the treach'rous straits 'twixt ice and land at the far southern tip of that great continent, the endless chains of sun-kissed friendly isles that speckle Jack Sparrow's Pacific maps (o, what a lie, to name that storm-fretted expanse of water 'Pacific'!) like fine emeralds scattered across a blue china plate; he's watched as Jack Sparrow swaggers and shimmies ashore to numberless ports, piers, quays and strands, all gilded smile and improbable charm, trading rumour and certainty and opinion -- not to mention letters, more often than not opened and read, just in case -- as confidently as indigo, silver, soap; and Jack's seen, too, the way that Sparrow captains his crew, his light hold (Lord, it's a year and more since Jack's been a'horseback) on the reins, his good humour and easy manner with the men, and all of that sharpened and refined and perfected when he's with Jack, the two of them all ... but here's Jack Sparrow himself, shirtless in the Equatorial heat, hat shading his eyes, lamp-black all smeared and whorish (Jack knows the taste of it, it's on his tongue as though drawn forth by simple sight of Sparrow) from brow to high cheekbone; he's saying something, and Jack must _listen_ , though looking's so very fine in itself, he's saying, "What's on your mind, love?" and Jack -- by no means _accustomed_ yet to the endearment, but knowing it true in Sparrow's heart as in his own -- grins lazily up at Sparrow (Jack's lounging at the bow, letting the breeze of the _Pearl_ 's progress cool him) and says, Imp-pulsed, "why, _love_ , just thinkin' on what's missing, what I've lost;" and -- Jack was sure of it, but did not resist the urge to tease -- Sparrow's smile becomes anxiety, his eyebrows go up, he kneels delicious close to Jack, and says, "what's missing, what's amiss?"; to Jack it feels like those long moments when he teases in that _other_ , unspeaking way, when they're abed together and he holds still just to torment himself (and gaspy bare begging Jack Sparrow), just to draw out the glorious certainty of their impending collision, and so he twists his smirk into a puzzled, yearny frown, and sets his finger to the corner of his mouth as Sparrow does when he's musing on something; but Sparrow's eyes follow that finger, and Jack -- or p'rhaps the Imp -- can't deny him what he so clearly expects; he parts his lips, slowlyslowly, and lets just tonguetip venture out to taste (salt, tar, fermenting fruit) that querysome digit ... and at once the play's over, for Sparrow's sharp and sees through Jack's pretences, every one (though some more quick than others); he's smiling at Jack, that sharp sharky smile that promises retribution of a most deliciously _physical_ kind for every one of Jack's attempts to pull a fast one on his captain; and Jack says quickly, before Sparrow distracts him utterly from his Argument, "no, Jack, but really; what it is, that everything's so _easy_ , that there's no quarrelling, no hardship, no trouble save what we serve out to our prey; no difficulties of the sort that pepper life on land, and --"; "-- and you're saying that our life lacks _spice_ , Jack, is that it?" and Jack is certainly saying no such thing, for Sparrow's spice enough for any life, and he conveys this sentiment with a hot look that has Jack Sparrow (visibly, mmmm, _responding_ to Jack's attention) reaching down for Jack's hand, ready to lead him below to, aaaah, earthly delights; " **tjogjog** , Mr Shaftoe," he says, all smug with superior knowledge, and Jack twists and tugs and brings Jack Sparrow sprawling atop him (never mind the crew; they're surely accustomed to this, these days) and tilts his head, all curious, and says, "really?" and Sparrow, ever happy to explain and _educate_ , says, "aye, Jack; a word I had from a lady in Batavia -- all right, p'rhaps not so very _ladylike_ , but a charming lass, and happy to satisfy my ... curiosity" (here Jack rolls his eyes, but more from affection than any _envious_ pang) "regarding her native tongue, mmm, do that again; **tjogjog** is the word they have for when things fit together, work together, all harmonious and comfortable and more than any one part of 'em: like, oooh, you and me, Jack, and I'll be happy to demonstrate anew, in _private_ ," now he's murmuring up close 'gainst Jack's ear, all secret and intimate, "how well we fit together, how your tongue fits my mouth, how your hand fits my skin, how my cock fits your arse -- not to mention your gorgeous mouth, Mr Shaftoe, and your hand, and indeed every last part of your anatomy," and Jack can tease, can endure, no more: he's on his feet, hauling Sparrow roughly upright, ready and eager for Jack Sparrow to sway all boneless against him, to turn his face for the kiss that Jack has waiting: it's not predictability, oh no, for Jack Sparrow's never predictable (save in the broadest sense, that he loves Jack and gold and his _Pearl_ ) and Jack adores each day's, each night's, surprises; but there's an understanding 'twixt the two of them, a trust and confidence and awareness, that brings Jack's hand up to catch Sparrow's as they head aft, that soon'll have them stripping one another as handily as each man might undress himself, and then falling together easy and soft (and, oooh, _hard_ ) onto the broad cot they share, Jack's mouth on Sparrow's throat as Sparrow's is hot on Jack's shoulder, Jack's hand (then, as they stretch and coil together, tongue) on Sparrow's cock, Sparrow's slick fingers inside Jack, Jack's body curving and easing and spreading for Sparrow, Sparrow's mouth all heat and heartfelt moan 'round Jack's Credential, each pushing into t'other, penetrated and penetrating, giving and taking, of one mind (and oh, one heart that's two hearts forged together) with no need of speech or sign, Jack and Jack braided so tight that they 'come one, a marvel, marvelling at the roar of rightness that rushes through them both.


End file.
